Page 40 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

The night presses close around us as we approach the compound.

Stars are smothered by heavy cloud cover, and a new moon offers no illumination—perfect conditions for our operation.

I’m wedged in the back of our tactical van, surrounded by screens casting an eerie blue glow across my face, the only light for miles besides the distant yellow squares of the compound windows.

My laptop hums with purpose, establishing connections to the compound’s security network through vulnerabilities I identified earlier.

It’s delicate work, requiring concentration that’s hard to maintain as the van jostles over uneven terrain, but I’ve operated under worse conditions.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, each keystroke bringing us closer to capturing Vasquez.

“Two minutes to position,” Vapor murmurs through our encrypted comm system. His voice sounds different through the earpiece—stripped of its natural resonance.

I nod though no one’s watching me, focused on breaching the compound’s firewall.

Their security is good, but not impenetrable.

I’ve been probing their system for hours, mapping architecture, identifying weaknesses.

Now I’m exploiting a vulnerability in their remote access protocols, sliding into their network through a maintenance backdoor they never properly secured.

“I’m in,” I report, satisfaction warming my voice as the security dashboard populates my main screen. Camera feeds from around the compound appear in a grid, showing guards moving in predictable patterns. “Accessing camera controls now. East perimeter will go dark in thirty seconds.”

Due to an unexpected network isolation protocol, I need to physically access the network to bypass it—meaning I need to be inside.

Not ideal, but adaptable. The portable kit strapped to my chest contains everything I need: specialized tools, a tablet with a dedicated connection with my main system in the van, and enough processing power to override local security measures once I reach the central hub.

The van slows to a stop a quarter-mile from the compound’s east wall—close enough for strong signal transmission, far enough to remain undetected. Ice kills the engine, plunging us into silence broken only by the soft whirring of my laptop ’ s cooling fans.

“East cameras disabled,” I announce, watching the feed go black on my screen. “You have a two-minute window before their failsafe protocols kick in.”

Vapor’s voice is calm, measured: “Move out.”

We exit the van in practiced formation—Vapor leading, followed by Ice and Bones, with Tank and Diablo taking up rear positions. I’m sandwiched in the middle, protected on all sides. Night vision goggles transform the darkness into shades of green, giving the landscape an alien quality.

We move in silence across open ground, then through a stand of scrub pine that provides additional cover.

The compound wall looms ahead, eight feet of concrete topped with security sensors that I’ve temporarily blinded.

Bones cups his hands to boost Ice up. Ice reaches the top, confirms the all-clear, then extends a hand to help pull the rest of us up in sequence.

Despite his size, Bones scales the wall with surprising grace.

Once inside the perimeter, we split as planned. Tank and Diablo peel off to secure our exit route and eliminate perimeter guards. Vapor, Ice, Bones, and I continue toward the main house where Vasquez should be sleeping, unaware that his sanctuary has been compromised.

“Central control system is in the security office,” I whisper, pointing to a small building adjacent to the main house. “I need five minutes there to take full control of their security grid.”

Vapor nods, signaling Ice to take point.

We advance in a tight diamond formation, using shadows for cover.

My heart pounds against my ribs, adrenaline heightening every sense.

This isn’t my usual role—I’m typically behind screens, not boots on the ground—but there’s a visceral thrill to field operations that’s impossible to replicate in the digital realm.

A guard appears around a corner, his rifle silhouetted against a security light. Before he can react, Ice is on him—a swift, silent takedown that ends with the guard unconscious, gagged, and zip-tied. We continue without breaking stride, approaching the security office from its blind side.

The door requires keycard access, but I’ve prepared for this.

My tablet interfaces with the electronic lock, running through encryption sequences until the light blinks green.

Inside, a single guard whirls toward us.

Bones handles him, tackling him to the ground before wrapping one massive arm around his throat, cutting off blood flow until consciousness fades.

No alarm, no gunfire, just the soft thud of a body being lowered to the floor.

“Security hub,” I announce, moving immediately to the central control station. My fingers dance across the keyboard, bypassing local security to access the compound’s core systems. “Sixty seconds.”

The others secure the room, checking sight lines and establishing defensive positions.

I barely notice, lost in the intricacy of dismantling security protocols one by one.

Cameras freeze for a split second before looping old footage, the door locks disengage, and alarm systems enter maintenance mode—all without triggering alerts that would warn the remaining guards.

“Full system access achieved,” I report, allowing myself a brief smile of satisfaction. “All internal cameras disabled. Electronic locks throughout the compound are under our control.”

Vapor claps my shoulder once, a gesture of approval. “Main house next. Lead us in.”

With the security system compromised, we move more boldly across the compound, no longer constrained by camera coverage.

Two more guards fall to silent takedowns before we reach the main house’s rear entrance.

I confirm the lock is disengaged before pulling the heavy door open to reveal a darkened kitchen.

Inside, the house is quiet—too quiet. The silence triggers a warning in my mind, a subtle wrongness that doesn’t align with our intelligence. There should be movement, signs of habitation. Instead, there’s a stillness that feels intentional.

“Second floor, northwest corner,” I remind the team, pushing the unease aside. “Vasquez’s quarters should be there.”

We ascend the stairs, checking corners and doorways as we go. The hallway stretches before us, doors on either side leading to darkened rooms. At the end, a heavy wooden door marks what should be the master suite—Juan Vasquez’s personal quarters.

Vapor takes position beside the door with Ice on the other side. Bones and I hang back, providing coverage. A nod from Vapor, and Ice tests the handle. As expected, it ’ s unlocked. Another nod, and they burst through the door in perfect coordination, weapons raised.

There ’ s no one in the room. One wall hosts a bed with rumpled sheets. On another wall, there ’ s a dresser with drawers partially open and a desk with nothing on its surface. The scene has the unmistakable feel of a hasty departure—or a setup.

And then I hear it. A faint, rhythmic beeping coming from the dresser. So subtle it’s almost lost beneath the sound of our breathing, but unmistakable to ears trained to recognize electronic signatures.

“Hold,” I say, raising a hand as Ice moves to check the closet. “Something’s wrong.”

I approach the dresser cautiously, the beeping growing slightly louder. With careful movements, I pull the top drawer open wider.

My blood turns to ice. Nestled among discarded clothing is a matte black box. No logos. No wires. Just a smooth little box, maybe the size of an old-school router. But I ’ ve been in enough shady backchannels and darknet forums to know what this is.

It continues ticking, but I doubt it ’ s on a timer since they had no way of knowing when we ’ d arrive. Still, I grab a static strap from my rig before I touch the latch. Just in case. Then I pry the casing open.

Inside, it ’ s beautiful—and horrifying.

The internal layout is surgical. Two thin-layered slabs of white PETN and RDX sandwiched between copper discs, probably etched to shape the blast. The core ’ s shaped like a cone, narrow and deadly.

Whoever built this didn ’ t just want a boom—they wanted direction, collapse, fire.

The whole house will explode. No timer, but it has an antenna—this one ’ s old-school. Someone local will have to detonate it.

“It’s a trap,” I breathe, the realization blooming into full-blown alarm as I process what I’m seeing. “The whole place is rigged to blow!”

“ Pull back! Get out now!” Vapor yells into the comms.

Chaos erupts as we scramble toward the exit. Vapor is shouting into his comm, ordering Tank and Diablo to fall back to the extraction point. Ice and Bones are already at the stairs, taking them three at a time. I’m right behind them, focused solely on reaching the exit.

I ’ m almost at the open door, right on Vapor and Ice ’ s heels when the world turns white.

A wave of heat and pressure lifts me off my feet and hurls me through the door like a rag doll.

For one sharp, impossible second, I’m airborne, thrown forward by the blast wave.

My last conscious thought is of Mina waiting at the clubhouse, of the promise I made to return to her.

Then darkness swallows everything.